Cristabeth
by M C Pehrson
Summary: Story #4 The series jumps ahead by several years, and Spock is now in command of the Enterprise when a child is brought aboard ship. Could this hostile, unruly urchin be the daughter he has never met?
1. Chapter 1

The child lay on the floor, curled into a tight ball of misery. She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears, trying to block out the strangled coughing just beyond the wall. "Mama," she said under her breath, accenting the second syllable. It was the only trace of French influence in her flat colonial speech.

French was the language of Mama's homeland—there was no end to the many languages Mama could speak. Now, there was no end to the coughing. With all her might Cristabeth wished Mama better and tried to summon happy thoughts, but a sickening dread overwhelmed her. She was shaking inside.

"Crista?"

Cristabeth untangled her thin legs. "Coming, Mama!" She crept down the hallway and peered through the doorframe into the dimly lit room. On her bed Mama stretched out an emaciated arm. "Crista," she gasped, "over here."

Stiff with fear, Cristabeth edged closer. She stopped at the bedside, biting her fist while Mama struggled for air. "Crista…it is time. Help me…dress."

"But I don't think I want to," whined the child. Sudden tears splashed down her pallid face. "Please, Mama…"

Mama gripped her with bony fingers as cold as death, and the ravaged voice strengthened from urgency. "Come now, Crista. It will be…fun…seeing a starship. Get my clothes…my medicine."

Silently crying, Cristabeth brought a loose-fitting wrap and an inhaler to help Mama breathe. Taking Mama's arm, she guided her slowly from the house, to the cab waiting at the curb. It was a long time since Mama had ventured outside, but to Cristabeth the occasion held no joy. Wiping at her tears, she knew she would never forget this day. She would never again see blue skies and spring sunshine without remembering this fateful, wrenching trip.

"I don't like him," she sobbed.

Mama sighed. "You have never… _met_ him. You might not…meet him at all. He is…a busy man."

They arrived at the spaceport terminal, a weeping child and a shuffling old woman. Mama sank into a chair and sent Cristabeth to find the Port Authority. She had made it this far—what little strength remained must be saved for the coming ordeal.

ooooo

Standing in Captain Spock's quarters, Commander Hikaru Sulu regarded his superior with exasperation. Despite the many years they had served together, there were times when he simply did not understand the solemn Vulcan. And this past year as Spock's executive officer had been particularly trying. Sulu was eager for a ship of his own and the Enterprise might well have been that ship, had Spock not returned from Vulcan to resume his career in Starfleet. Even so, their working relationship had been steadily improving until this Ildaran mission. Spock had not been himself since their arrival at the planet. Now, though Spock was seated, he had not offered Sulu a chair. He did not even seem to be listening.

"Captain…" Sulu began again.

Spock's dark eyes found him over a triangle of well-groomed fingertips. It was the first indication that Spock had heard his second-in-command. "Mister Sulu, if I am not concerned about diplomatic protocol, I see no reason why you should fret. The facilitation of this trade conference is my responsibility, not yours."

"But that's just the point! The Ildaran proceedings _are_ your responsibility." Stomach churning, Sulu wondered if he had gone too far in venting his frustration. They were a team, but only in the strictest military sense. Their relationship had never touched on a level that permitted such liberties, much to his regret. Not that he expected the sort of friendship Spock shared with Admiral Kirk. No. Just a slight unbending, an occasional acknowledgement that beneath the Starfleet insignia, they were men. Once—just once—Spock had asked about Sulu's family. But did he really care? Who could tell? The Vulcan never let loose a personal thought from that hyper-efficient circuit board of a brain. He had never even called Sulu by his first name.

"Mister Sulu." Spock's voice was taut. "Have I overestimated your capabilities? If you cannot manage such a simple assignment, then say so."

Sulu barely held onto his temper. There was no swaying Spock once that obstinate Vulcan mind was set. "Sir, that's not what I meant. You know Ildarani is strategically important for both trade and military defense in this sector—a colony world come of age. To offend Governor Jordan is to risk alienating a valuable outpost of the Federation." Though his words had no visible effect, he gamely continued. "Jordan expects you at the Palace Ball. True, it's only a dance, but he's faithfully attended every trade session aboard ship. He's apt to interpret your absence as a deliberate snub."

Spock rose up, a formidable tower of maroon and gold braid. "Mister Sulu. Do you presume to lecture me like a cadet?"

"…S-sir," Sulu found himself stammering, "absolutely not. It's only my…my _duty_ to present every aspect of the situation."

Spock's slanted eyebrow crept dangerously high. "And I shall give the situation all the care it is due. Meanwhile, you will prepare your dress uniform."

Sulu swallowed a useless retort. In the battle of wills he never won. He sometimes wondered why he even tried anymore, except that it _was_ his duty to supply Spock with all the information needed for command decisions. And Sulu valued duty. Lately it was all that kept him bound to the insular Vulcan.

ooooo

As the door snapped shut at his first officer's heels, Spock shivered in a draft from the corridor. It no longer mattered whether or not he chose to perceive the cold. The cold was there, miserable and unrelenting, and his body protested its discomfort. If he ignored his body's protest, he was likely to fall ill. Simple desert-bred logic guided him to the cabin environment control and he raised the temperature by twenty degrees. That at least would ease his chronic chill. Now if only memories could be vanquished with the touch of a keypad…

 _Twelve years._ How short a time it seemed—and yet, how very long. A barren eternity spent striving for inner peace...countless days mired in struggle…desolate, wakeful nights. His efforts had culminated with three years on Vulcan, where he undertook the rigorous Kolinahir discipline. And still he could not free himself completely—he had accomplished nothing. He had only to set course to this obscure planet and it was as if the years had never passed—as if tonight's ball were another, and Adrianna waited for him below—warm, vibrant, _alive._

But, of course, Adrianna was dead. And she had never been more than a cruel illusion.

Spock tugged his uniform jacket into flawless lines, resolutely turning his mind from who might be very much alive on modern day Ildarani. That possibility did not concern him. It _must_ not concern him. Over the years he had even denied himself access to the Ildaran census records.

A sudden door chime broke into his thoughts. "Come," he called out, relieved. Just now he would welcome any distraction, but the womanly presence entering his cabin took him by surprise. Nyota Uhura had never visited him here.

She approached somewhat hesitantly, her dark face full of worry. "Captain, I need to talk to you…"

Spock's long-term associates would have been surprised at how sensitive he had grown to their changeable moods. Whatever was bothering his communications officer did not involve the usual starship business. By some rare stirring of intuition, he braced for troubling news. "Yes, Commander. What is it?" Uhura scrutinized him with an intensity that increased Spock's unease. "Commander?" he prompted, tilting his head quizzically.

"Captain…weren't you part of a scientific research team on Ildarani some ten or eleven years ago?"

The question was more than troubling. Only ingrained Vulcan training allowed Spock to reply in his usual calm, precise manner. "Twelve years, one month, and three days."

Uhura nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. I remember. You returned to the Enterprise with an ailing young woman and her French mother. Captain Kirk gave them passage to Starfleet Medical Center."

Spock took in a slow, deep breath that steadied him. "You have an excellent memory. It would be pleasant to reminisce further, but unfortunately I am due on—" He started for the door, but Uhura jumped into his path, so like the impulsive Adrianna that he momentarily looked away.

She gave his arm a most unmilitary squeeze. "Captain. I've just arrived from the landing port. There's a sick woman demanding to beam up and meet you, but of course the Port Authority wants you to clear it. They've determined that she's not contagious. And sir…she sounds French. I'm almost certain she's the older colonist you brought aboard ship that time."

There was no disguising his reaction. Twelve years of bitter uncertainty filled Spock's eyes as he asked, "She is…alone?"

Uhura shook her head. Watching him closely she said, "A child is with her. A girl, rather small for her age. Eleven. The woman wanted me to tell you that." She paused. "Should I…bring them aboard?"

Spock tried to think. If in truth this woman was Justrelle Lemoine, she bore him a personal hatred so intense that there would likely be only one reason for her visit. But why bring the child along? Reaching a decision, he said, "Escort them to the deck three briefing room. I'll be waiting there."

ooooo

Cristabeth hung her head as a dark-skinned lady in uniform led her and Mama to the transporter station. So they were really going aboard the starship, among people like this woman named Uhura. And _him._

Uhura smiled as she gently centered Cristabeth under the locus. "Don't be afraid, honey. You'll be on the Enterprise before you know it."

Despite the woman's kindness, Cristabeth remained silently terrified. She closed her eyes tight and wished she could clutch Mama's hand as the shimmering beam caught hold. When next she looked, it was over. The subtle vibration beneath her feet meant she was aboard the starship, a world of stark surfaces and strange, frightening faces. A woman stepped from behind an equipment console, staring at Cristabeth in a way that made her self-conscious. She quickly rearranged her long, dark hair to cover her misshapen ears.

Uhura introduced the curious crewmember. "This is Janice Rand, honey. She makes sure everyone beams to and from the ship safely. It's a very important job."

After leaving the transporter room, they walked down a long hallway and through sliding doors, into a small waiting area. By now Mama was winded and coughing.

"Rest a minute," urged Uhura.

"No," Mama said, "there is no time for that." She pointed to the inner door. "He is in there?"

"Yes, go ahead." Then Uhura added, "Should I…keep the child here with me?"

"Please," answered Mama, and Cristabeth gladly sank into a chair.

ooooo

Captain Spock received his guest with studied formality, rising from his seat at the conference table as though greeting yet another Ildaran bureaucrat. "Welcome aboard the Enterprise, Madam Lamoine."

In truth, Spock found the change in her shocking. Once, Justrelle Lamoine had been a fine-looking woman, almost regal in her tall, arrogant bearing. Sickness had etched her face with pain, leaving her gray and stooped far beyond her years. The rasp of her labored breathing filled the room. He waited, silent and unmoving, as she succumbed to a spasm of coughing. It was a long, uncomfortable moment before she could speak.

"So," she declared in the acidic tone he remembered so well, "you have gotten… your command. A starship capitaine." Eyeing his uniform with distaste, she noted, "Grief did not…hold you back any, eh? Mais, non. You always _did_ take…exactly what you wanted…regardless."

Spock knew the circumstance of his promotion was not the issue here. Justrelle still had not forgiven him for her daughter's death. Neither time nor poor health had tempered her lust for vengeance. At their last meeting she had almost killed him. Mindful of her violent nature, he felt for the phaser's outline beneath his jacket.

Justrelle patted her purse and laughed at him. "No…my dear brave Spock…unlike you…I have no concealed weapon. I am not going…to hurt you, as much pleasure…as that might bring me. Murder would…defeat my purpose completely."

"And what," Spock asked, "is your purpose?"

Justrelle took a seat and looked at him through narrowed eyes. "You have no child. That is what…you once said to me. You cast off…your own flesh and blood…like a piece of rubbish. You did not even try…to win custody."

Spock gripped a chair back until his fingers whitened. How dare she accuse him? Years ago she had made it quite clear. The child was the daughter of a Sy-jeera, a young man-eater like her mother, Adrianna. Only a fool would burn himself twice in the same flame. And Justrelle had _wanted_ the baby, _demanded_ her, and warned against ever trying to assert his parental rights. Even so, he had suffered ample regrets about leaving a child—any child—to this vindictive woman.

"Is…she well?" He would ask that much.

"If by that you mean…is she healthy? The answer is yes. But…she can hardly be happy…watching the only mama she has ever known…die by inches."

The single statement yielded considerable information. The girl _was_ alive and in good health. She had been treated well enough to care about her grandmother—and now Justrelle Lemoine was dying. All cause for some relief, but Spock's memories of this devious woman made him wary. Why _had_ she come aboard?

"I have not…many days left. Soon the child…will be orphaned. Does that mean… anything to you? Have you…ever considered…accepting the responsibility…of your daughter?"

"My… _daughter._ " Another ripple of anger threatened Spock's self-control. He waited until he could trust his voice. "Suddenly she is _my_ daughter? By your own account I was trapped into a relationship with Adrianna and as a result she died from a rare complication of pregnancy. That left only the unborn child— _your_ child to raise as you saw fit. Yes, you made that abundantly clear to me."

Justrelle bent over and began to cough. Though she struggled pathetically for breath, Spock did not soften toward her. Yet simple decency demanded that he say, "Shall I have the ship's doctor examine you?"

She shook her head and drew out an inhaler. The coughing subsided. "There is…nothing more…any physician…can do for me. At this point…I am thinking…only of the child. Why else…would I come to you?" Her voice grew bleak. "I have no friends…willing to take her. Your arrival here…seemed almost an omen. I hope to Dieu…not a bad omen."

Though Spock dismissed the idea of omens as superstitious, his reluctance to undertake this Ildaran mission could have been interpreted as a foreboding of trouble. "Speak plainly," he demanded.

"Very well. I have done… enough checking…to know you come…from a wealthy family. The child will be needing…family. I have…already told her…who you are. If, by some chance…you feel some twinge…of fatherly concern…I will leave her…with you…for a trial period. Say…a week? Whether or not she stays…with you permanently…will be her decision…as well as yours. If she…prefers an orphanage…over your tender care…I would not blame her." She pulled herself from the chair and gazed sourly at Spock. "Well, Vulcan…what then will it be?"

Spock could not have prepared himself for this. The situation was so unexpected, so implausible. His instinctive reaction was to say 'no' and spare himself what was certain to be a painful experience. 'I have no child', he had vowed twelve years ago. Yet, in his mind's eye, he had watched her grow up—a little mirror image of Adrianna. She would be beautiful. She would be intelligent. Would she also be as sly and controlling as her mother? As disagreeable as her grandmother? There was only one way to find out.

Sight unseen he decided, "She may stay the week. I cannot promise anything more."

Justrelle eyed him with suspicion. "Do not get any…treacherous ideas. I have made sure…plenty of others…know the child is here. If you should…run off with her…"

"I am a Vulcan," Spock said, as if that fact guaranteed his good behavior.

Justrelle only snorted. "A cold and cunning sauvage…that is all…you are. Oh…do not worry. I have not…prejudiced her. I have had…trouble enough…raising that child. She has not…been easy to love. When you see her…you will know why. Perhaps…after all…she _does_ belong with you…though you are not…capable…of winning her heart."

Without a backward glance she shuffled from the room, leaving Spock to ponder his old vulnerability to her insults. Her words should not have mattered—but they did. Justrelle's smug prophecy compounded his nervousness as he awaited the first glimpse of Adrianna's child. _His_ child. He scarcely knew how to speak to any child. What would he do with an eleven-year-old stranger—the offspring of a Sy-Jeera?

The door hissed open and Spock turned from vague speculations to hard reality.

She was staring at him. He was staring just as hard, yet he could not stop himself. He could not silence the inner protest, the stubbornly indignant outcry at being cheated. _No! Wrong, all wrong!_ This was not the diminutive copy of Adrianna that had teased through his dreams at night. No rounded limbs here, no golden hair or exquisite features. This knobby-kneed urchin looked undernourished. Overly round Vulcanoid ear tips peeked forlornly from her limp brown hair. Her brows were noticeably arched. Of course, they would be. They belonged on that face. With a pang Spock recognized his own bone structure, feminized by an unkind genetic quirk. _No wonder Justrelle found her difficult to love!_

Through all this, Spock's expression remained…almost impassive. The girl made so such attempt. Her jaw jutted defiantly. "Mama," she spoke, stressing the second syllable in the French manner. "Mama says you're my father. Is it true? Are you Captain Spock?"

"I am," Spock conceded, realizing that he did not even know her name.

Anger flared from her hazel eyes. "Well, I don't give a darn _who_ you are! I'm going back home!"

As she turned to leave, Spock's tightly controlled voice stopped her. "Your grandmother is very ill. She has placed you in my care for a week."

The news brought furious tears to the eyes so like his own—a singularly distressing sight. Spock did not know what more to say to her. He was having enough trouble managing his own reactions.

All at once she rushed for the door, but finding only Uhura in the anteroom, she stopped in the doorway and turned on Spock. "I don't believe you! Where is she? What have you done with Mama?" She stood trembling like a wild creature, poised to flee or attack.

In the nightmarish moment Uhura acted first, edging inconspicuously to block the corridor exit. "Cristabeth," she said gently, "come here now. Don't be afraid. It's only for a few days. Your mama said."

With a poisonous glance at Spock, Cristabeth fled into Uhura's open arms. Hugging the sympathetic woman, she sobbed, "He's _not_ my father! I hate him!"

Spock tried to look as if he had not heard, but his speech was strained. "The child…shall require some sleeping arrangement…and a companion." He watched his daughter cling desperately to Uhura. He saw the apology in Uhura's eyes, the thinly veiled pity, and he felt worse than a failure. He felt like a monster.

"I can take her to my quarters," Uhura said in a motherly tone. "There's plenty of room and I'd love to have Crista keep me company. I'll make her up some clothes in a fabricator."

Spock could only nod.

ooooo

He knew what a stir the child was creating. Spock caught snatches of the chatter, glimpsed the curious eyes that measured and compared every angle of his face to young Cristabeth's. The resemblance between them was too striking to be vaguely brushed aside. Obviously she was a relative of some sort, but he simply kept silent about her—and could only hope that Uhura and the child herself kept their silence.

At another day's end, Spock was at his desk thinking over the situation when Doctor McCoy burst uninvited into his cabin. Apparently the good doctor had forgotten how to press the door chime. The problem was not with his fingers. They worked well enough to adjust the temperature setting downward as McCoy headed for the small store of liquor Spock kept for privileged guests.

Spock could no longer contain himself when McCoy dropped to one knee and began rummaging through the low cabinet. "Do feel at home, Doctor."

"Thank you, Captain, I will," came the equally dry retort. Selecting a decanter, McCoy poured fine Saurian brandy into a snifter and set it before the pensive Vulcan. "Be daring, Spock, and have a jolt. Hell, if you don't unwind soon, I might have to prescribe a tranquilizer."

"Save your noxious poisons," Spock said, pushing aside the green liquor. He was tempted to dismiss the meddlesome doctor with strong language, yet there was a certain indefinable comfort in McCoy's abrasive presence. As always, Spock found their relationship difficult to classify. Friends or adversaries? Had they not been drawn together by their common friendship with Jim Kirk, they likely would have remained cool acquaintances. But through Kirk a bond of sorts had developed, holding fast even after Jim's appointment to the admiralty. Two strong-minded men, seldom agreeing on anything, yet sharing trust, concern, and a grudging respect for the very differences that annoyed them. And perhaps that was not so remarkable.

"Just how long are you going to brood?" demanded McCoy, perching on the desktop like some hungry raptor.

Spock looked at him. Graying hair, lean and craggy—time had left its indelible stamp on the man. McCoy had aged, but so had Spock, though considerably less due to his Vulcan genes. Yet today Spock felt the weight of his years. In a long-suffering tone he said, "Doctor, you refer to a somber emotional state. Once and for all, as a Vulcan I am not susceptible to the vagaries of your human moods."

"Bullshit!" McCoy leaned forward, fixing Spock with a steely gaze. "I don't know every little thing that happened on this garden spot twelve years ago, but I sure as hell know what followed. Don't forget, I was there. I helped pick up the pieces, I stitched you back together—and it wouldn't take much imagination to figure out who Cristabeth is, even…" he ended in a rush "…even if I _hadn't_ checked her DNA."

Spock rose to his feet in outrage. "Doctor McCoy, you have overstepped the bounds of your medical authority!"

Still seated on the desktop, McCoy gazed up at him, unshaken. "Well," he drawled, "I suppose that's true. Just these damn human emotions cloudin' my judgment. Maybe I shouldn't care, but I keep puttin' myself in your place, and from what I see, it's not such a pleasant place lately. No wonder you hole up in this cabin of yours like some grumpy old hermit. Why, if my daughter Joanna had ever gone around glarin' at _me_ that way…"

 _Grumpy?_ The anger drained from Spock. At most, he had been somewhat less than amiable in recent days. He knew the strain was telling. And as for McCoy, he could have deduced Cristabeth's identity by any number of means, perhaps even the wardroom bulletin screen. Spock sank back into his chair, almost relieved to say, "The child detests me. That must be obvious to everyone aboard ship. In her eyes I see her grandmother's hostility…and I do not know how to reach her. It is as if there is a wall between us."

"You sound defeated, and that isn't like you—not like you at all."

Spock lifted the glass of brandy. Keeping his eyes on the green liquor, he began to swirl it. Somewhere inside him a stiff, stubborn door cracked ajar. McCoy _had_ been there twelve years ago to, as he said, 'pick up the pieces'. McCoy had helped him then and maintained a professional silence ever since. Perhaps the bond between them had grown stronger than Spock realized. For once he did not resist the inner door's opening. For once he felt a need to let down his Vulcan barriers and confide in this man who at times saw him with astonishing clarity.

ooooo

In the officers' mess, Cristabeth sat picking glumly at her food.

"You need to eat," urged Uhura. Two days aboard ship, and the child had not yet finished a meal. Uhura shrugged helplessly at Doctor Chapel.

Chapel put down her fork and turned her full attention on the forlorn figure across the table. Uhura had parted Cristabeth's hair in the middle and woven two French braids that met in the back. Now there was no hiding those semi-Vulcanoid ears. _Could this truly be Spock's child?_ Her conviction grew every time she looked at the girl. Those hardy Vulcan genes invariably dominated. Spock himself was living proof. Smiling wistfully she asked, "What's wrong, dear? Don't you like the food?"

"It's weird," pouted Cristabeth. "Not like when Mama cooked…back before she got so sick."

"Well," reasoned Uhura, "you selected the food yourself. Even the meat." She hoped Spock would not disapprove. He had not ordered a Vulcan diet for the child; in fact, he had made no recommendations of any kind. Since that first devastating encounter with Cristabeth, he had mostly kept his distance. Uhura was on her own. Cautiously she said, "Did you know that Captain Spock is a vegetarian?"

Cristabeth gave her plate an angry shove. "I don't care! I don't care anything about him!"

Chapel was dismayed. "Cristabeth. You shouldn't talk that way about your fa—" Barely catching herself, she finished lamely, "—about the captain." Embarrassed, she picked up her tray and left with a mumbled excuse.

Cristabeth folded her arms over her chest and sulked. "My _father,_ she means. Well, I hate his Vulcan guts!"

This time Uhura lost patience. Seizing the child's thin shoulders, she jerked Cristabeth around to face her. "That's enough, young lady! It's high time you learn some respect. Never—I repeat, _never_ say that again. Do you understand?"

Cristabeth nodded without remorse, her eyes smoldering. Uhura felt far from reassured. Loosening her hold, she glanced self-consciously at those few dining officers who might have overheard the child's outburst. Thankfully, the captain and Mister Sulu were absent.

Uhura marched Cristabeth to their deck five cabin and tried a different tactic. She sat the girl down on her improvised bunk and said, "Look at me," but the sullen eyes remained downcast. "Cristabeth, I can forgive your attitude toward your father because you don't know him as we do. However, I can't overlook your conduct. No matter how you feel inside, you need to speak and act respectfully—not only to Captain Spock, but also everyone aboard this ship. Showing courtesy reflects well on your mama. Do you want everyone thinking she's a bad parent?" The girl looked up, and Uhura continued in a gentler, more sympathetic voice. "I know you love her, honey. This separation must be very difficult for both of you. I'm sure your grandmother misses you, and I know she would want you to be on your very best behavior. Remember, _she's_ the one who arranged this visit with your father. Don't you want to make her proud of you?"

Tears welled in Cristabeth's eyes and she said, "I just want to go home..."


	2. Chapter 2

The Enterprise had shifted into night cycle, with a minimal crew overseeing the ship's orbit. In the captain's quarters the remains of a meal cluttered a makeshift table while Spock and McCoy sat nearby, lingering over their snifters of Saurian brandy.

The sight of Spock lounging in upholstered comfort boggled McCoy's mind. Not that one could exactly call the Vulcan drunk, but he was certainly _relaxed_. It was not like Spock to drink more than a few sips of any liquor, and that only on rare occasions. It was not like him to speak of personal concerns, either. What a painful effort it must have been for Spock to open himself, but McCoy was frankly enjoying it. Of course, McCoy _was_ tipsy.

The doctor's long-discarded jacket lay carelessly tossed on the floor, and his shirtsleeves were pushed up to his elbows. "Yessir, I think she's alright," he mused. At Spock's skeptical look he insisted, "I mean it! So she's not what you expected. Kids seldom are. They're just themselves, Spock."

The normally articulate Vulcan seemed to grope for words. "But she is so…ill-mannered, so awkward, so…generally disagreeable."

"Does that make her this Sy-jeera thing you're talking about? So maybe her mother _was._ Women can rip you into little pieces—I know. _My_ ex-wife turned out to be a harpy. Hell, I joined Starfleet just to get away from her. But Cristabeth is only a kid, for pity sake—a miserable, homesick little girl." McCoy downed the remainder of his brandy in one gulp. Unlike Spock, he was an accomplished drinker. Good liquor only served to oil his tongue. "What are you going to call her, anyhow? 'Cristabeth' sounds so formal. Why not 'Crista" like Uhura does sometimes?"

Spock raised a slanted brow in reflection. "There is a Vulcan word, kres'ta. Most insulting and inappropriate for a name."

"Then 'Beth'. Now there's a good solid handle."

Spock calmly sipped his brandy and looked straight ahead at nothing in particular. "However I address her is of little consequence. The child loathes me. She has made that abundantly clear. Frankly, Doctor, I will be glad when the week is over and she goes elsewhere."

McCoy sat bolt upright. "Now wait a minute! That's your daughter you're talking about—your own flesh and blood!"

A shadow of pain crossed Spock's face. "Correction: _Adrianna's_ daughter. A budding Sy-jeera."

The words held such a load of bitterness that McCoy could not help but commiserate. Yet he could not stop thinking of young Cristabeth, either. Beneath that tough veneer was a child in anguish, a child who desperately needed a good father. Now if he could just blast Spock out of this damn defeatist attitude.

"Spock, you've just had a daughter handed to you. Are you really going to throw her away? Because of what she _might_ become?" McCoy paused, letting his voice sink in accusation. "Or…is there a more basic issue at play here? Maybe you like your life the way it is. Maybe you don't want a kid disrupting your comfortable little world."

Spock fixed him with a cold stare. "Do you consider me so ego-centric?"

"Then prove it," dared McCoy. He had struck a nerve, alright. Spock fairly twitched with the reverberations. "Somewhere inside that Vulcan body of yours, beats a heart, even if it only pumps limeade—eighty proof, right about now. Consider what the girl is going through, and give her half a chance. Hell, give _yourself_ half a chance. She may not know it yet, but she needs you. And maybe, just maybe, you need _her."_

Spock's eyes grew distant as he drained the last of his brandy.

Glancing at the time, McCoy rose in a languorous stretch. "Well, Captain, I'd say you followed doctor's orders almost to excess." Noticing Spock shiver, he added, "Now if you'd only start taking those Thermogran tablets, life would be more comfortable. You may not look it, but you're getting older. A warming suit just isn't enough anymore."

Spock said, "I've almost finished the bottle."

With a shock McCoy realized he was not referring to sweet Saurian brandy. Sure enough, the Vulcan drew his woefully depleted prescription from a trouser pocket.

"Spock, you've been doubling up!"

"Tripling," Spock quietly confessed. "This potion of yours is largely ineffective. I've noticed little difference whether or not I take the pills."

McCoy snatched up the container. "Talk about excess! Hell, you downed enough Thermogran to bring on heat stroke! _One pill a day,_ man, if I have to personally dole it out. I've told you that vigorous exercise is essential for this drug to be effective. When's the last time you had a decent workout?"

McCoy already knew the answer. These days, Spock had little occasion to outrun hostile aliens or chase down bad guys. Other than a traditional Vulcan combat sport, which approached almost mystical significance, he tended toward a sedentary life. And since Jim Kirk's departure, there had been few men willing to join Spock in a physical romp; even tempering his strength for weaker species did not rule out the chance of accidental injury. At the gym, as in so many areas of Spock's life, he found himself isolated. The loneliness of such an existence might have destroyed a human.

But Spock merely looked amused. "Doctor, may I interpret your question as a challenge to V'Asumi?"

McCoy snorted. "You may not. But tomorrow I'll meet you at the track, 0700 hours sharp, with _one_ Thermogran…and maybe something for a Vulcan-sized hangover." Taking the captain's silence as a form of agreement, he retrieved his uniform jacket. "Hell, I'll run _with_ you."

ooooo

Christine Chapel awoke smiling. Dressing quickly, she crossed the corridor to rouse the sleeping child who had become her charge for the day. "Don't worry about a thing," she had told Uhura last night. "We'll get along just fine. I'll show Cristabeth around sickbay. Who knows, maybe she'll show some interest in medicine."

If so, Chapel knew it would be the first interest the child displayed for any shipboard matter. She had heard the labels being applied—rude, antisocial—but she had never liked labels and she despised these. How could she accept them? Snuggled under the covers, Cristabeth looked so sweet and innocent and so poignantly like—yes, like Spock.

Chapel woke her gently, stroking her fine brown hair away from her ears—neither human nor Vulcan ears, but a curious mix of both. _Spock's child._ The very thought made her heart beat faster _._ She could not help but envy the woman who had lain with him and borne this living evidence of passion. Vaguely she recalled a patient—golden, incredibly beautiful—and the tense, silent Vulcan who brought her aboard. Was she the one? Could they have been lovers? There was nothing golden about Cristabeth, but in the mingling of genes anything was possible.

 _She should have been mine!_ The jealous thought briefly consumed her, then passed away in concern for the child. Where was her mother now? What unhappy chain of circumstances had set solemn, intense Cristabeth at odds with her father—worse even than strangers?

"We'll have breakfast a little later," she promised the child as they headed straight for sickbay. She was surprised when Cristabeth withheld her usual negative remarks about Enterprise food. The girl was subdued and tagged along on rounds like an obedient puppy. Chapel took it as a hopeful sign that she would respond to a good dose of genuine affection.

They were about to leave for breakfast when Doctor McCoy's head popped out from pre-op. "Do me a favor, Chris. The captain's expecting me at the track for a run in two minutes, but I've got an angry appendix waiting. Could you deliver that medication in my office? And see that he runs!"

Chapel gave him a skeptical smile. "Just how do you propose I do that?"

"Chase him," said McCoy, deadpan.

Chapel blushed. She sent her young companion ahead to the dining room, saddened that such a precaution seemed necessary. She arrived alone at the recreation deck. The turbolift opened directly onto the track-gymnasium center where a solitary figure in a gray warm-up suit waited at trackside. Spock looked up as Chapel came over and joined him.

"Captain," she said, "I've seldom seen this place so empty." Her voice actually created a faint echo.

"The crew is taking full advantage of Ildaran hospitality," Spock observed.

"And that marvelous spring weather," she added. "I was down at Shelter beach yesterday. You should check it out, sir—walk along the sand, watch the surf roll in." She tactfully refrained from any comment on his wan appearance. By the look of things that 'hangover' pill wasn't just McCoy's idea of a practical joke. After handing over the medicine, she filled the awkward moment with an apology for her absent colleague. Secretly she suspected that McCoy had begged off, feeling the effects himself.

Chapel watched Spock swallow the tablets—both of them—without water and made no effort to stop him when he headed for the changing room. She would not urge him to exercise in his condition.

Suddenly Spock came to a halt, his eyes fixed on the main entrance where a small but determined figure was approaching. It was Cristabeth! With a started gasp, Chapel hurried to intercept her disobedient charge before the girl said something horrible and the captain reprimanded Chapel for it.

But Spock's voice stopped her. "No—it is alright. Let the child come."

Chapel could only stand by, watching the scene unfold, and wonder at her good fortune. Now, firsthand, she would see these two interact.

Step by step Cristabeth drew near, her attention locked on the stony Vulcan face that was an uncanny image of her own. She reached Spock. Striking a defiant pose, she said, "I thought you were going to run."

After a wearing moment Spock levelly replied, "Indeed, I am." He scarcely hesitated to add, "Would you care to run with me?"

Under Cristabeth's disdainful eyes, he returned to the track and started out at a moderate jog. As he approached the end of his first lap, the child darted out and joined him. Chapel clung to the rail, a fascinated witness to this matter-antimatter mix, awaiting the inevitable explosion. She would have a few choice words for the scheming imp afterward, it there were anything left of her.

Cristabeth proved to be a natural runner. With strong, steady kicks she flew over the resilient track surface, swiftly building up a half lap lead before Spock moved to catch her. The girl clearly wanted a race. Hearing Spock closing in behind her, she quickened her pace. Spock pushed himself with what seemed a bit more effort than even a hung-over Vulcan should need to catch a child, and moved abreast. For breathless moments they ran side-by-side, Cristabeth's wiry legs stretching for speed, Spock measuring his stride to hers. But he did not pass the child. When the lap counter registered two kilometers he slowed, jogged a final circuit, then walked over to Chapel, breathing much too heavily from the exertion. He had the look of a man barely holding down his stomach. Beads of all-too-human sweat glistened on his face as he watched Cristabeth effortlessly complete another lap.

Chapel could not resist muttering, "Little show-off."

But Spock voiced a grudging approval. "She runs well. Remarkably well, considering her general lack of discipline."

He vanished into the changing room, leaving Chapel to ponder what course of discipline would most benefit the disobedient youngster. She was ready and waiting when Cristabeth ran from the track, beaming in smug triumph. "Young lady, you're in trouble! Didn't I tell you to wait for me in the dining room? Instead, you show up here, acting like—"

"I made him run, didn't I?" Cristabeth put in coolly. "Isn't that what you wanted? Anyhow, he's not anything special. I thought he was supposed to be so strong."

Even more than the words, it was the sneering tone that did it. Chapel lost her temper. "Why, you—listen here, little miss! Don't believe for one second that you outdid Captain Spock in any department! _You_ were the one racing, not him. The captain does not compete with…with brats!"

Cristabeth's eyes slowly narrowed—not at Chapel, but at some point beyond her left shoulder. Then came the masculine voice. "Touché, Doctor Chapel. You do have a way with children."

Pink from embarrassment, Chapel swung around to face her captain. How could he have dressed already? But there he stood, freshly showered, in full uniform, serenely observing her discomposure. She felt like clobbering them both.

Overcome with childish outrage, Cristabeth confronted her father. "You mean…you _let_ me win?"

"I let you _run,_ " countered Spock. "Any contest existed solely in your mind. Had I known that you came here without permission, you never would have run at all."

The gentle reprimand served to silence Cristabeth, but only for a moment. With a stubborn lift of her chin she asked, "Can I run with you again tomorrow?"

Chapel looked warily at Spock. The elegant Vulcan brows were drawn together in deliberation, perhaps searching for some logical reason to excuse himself. In the end his sensitive conscience failed him. "Very well," he said, voice tinged with reluctance. "You _may_ run—provided you behave appropriately until then."

Cristabeth's calculating little smile went unnoticed as he turned to Chapel. "And where is Commander Uhura this morning?"

"On shore leave, Captain. This is only a temporarily arrangement, but if you find it unsatisfactory…"

He shook his head rather wearily. "No, Doctor Chapel, you seem quite equal to the task. Do what you must to maintain a semblance of order."

Chapel brightened at the vote of confidence. "As you wish, sir." As he strode away, a slow grin of pleasure spread over her face.

At her side, Cristabeth loosed a derisive huff. "You like him. I can tell."

A hot flush of embarrassment caught Chapel yet again. "Your father…the captain…well, _everyone_ likes him." Too late, she realized that she had said the words out loud. _Your father._

Cristabeth chattered on as if she had heard nothing unusual. Making a face, she said "I hate it when he calls me 'the child'."

"Well, that's what you are—a child." And she could not resist adding, " _His_ child."

ooooo

"Captain… _Captain_ ," Sulu repeated under his breath as he leaned toward the Vulcan seated at his side.

Incredibly, Spock did not seem to hear him. The captain's stare remained centered on some distant place, far from the arms discussion heating the assembly room. Who could say how talk had derailed from agricultural exports to the touchy subject of planetary defense? However it had happened, Sulu could not believe Spock was just sitting there letting the conference go to hell. Clearing his throat, he tried once more for the Vulcan's attention. "Captain!"

Spock turned to him with a cold, piercing look Sulu remembered from those first days after the Vulcan returned from Kolinahr, a look Sulu had hoped never to see again. It sent a chill right through him.

In his hand, Spock held the message his yeoman had delivered seven minutes earlier. Abruptly crushing the printout, he scraped his chair away from the conference table. The sudden, noisy movement drew the eyes of several Ildarans, including Governor Jordan. Silence fell over the assembly as Spock stood to address them. "Ladies and gentlemen. My apologies, but an important matter has come up. I must leave you in the capable hands of our Federation envoy and my second-in-command."

A buzz of surprise circled the table, but Jordan signaled for quiet. "Most certainly, Captain." His words were laced with delicate sarcasm. "A starship commander must have many pressing duties."

Spock inclined his head and as he passed from the room, found Sulu at his heels. In the corridor he threw the crumpled wad of paper down a disposal chute.

"Anything I should know, sir?" inquired Sulu.

Spock continued to the turbolift, rigid and untouchable. The doors did not open immediately. Waiting, he faced the turbolift and said, "I fail to understand this crew's persistent, tiresome meddling into my private affairs. If you must play the psychoanalyst, Mister Sulu, then content yourself with the Ildaran representatives and their petty grievances. They are awaiting you."

The doors whooshed aside. Spock boarded the lift without softening the effect of his words, without acknowledging Sulu's certain anger with so much as a glance.

"Deck five," he ordered. As the lift began moving, he gripped the bar for support, holding tight against an onslaught of dizziness and nausea. The brandy's poison was still playing havoc with his system, but Spock considered it a minor problem compared to the deeper issue of his personal behavior. Sulu had reason to be concerned. Under strain, his captain had indulged in alcohol. And now his captain was abdicating his duty for personal considerations—something Spock would never tolerate in his subordinates, a luxury he had never before permitted himself. Yet he could not have remained amidst the assembly room babble one minute longer, not after reading the communiqué from Ildarani and absorbing its full implication.

He reached the privacy of his quarters and locked the door. Taking a seat, he pressed his fingertips to his throbbing temples and summoned the formula for controlling pain. Though his mental processes were less than optimal, the terse official words of the message remained vivid in every detail.

To Spock, Captain U.S.S. Enterprise:

It is my sad duty to inform you of the death of Justrelle

Lemoine, colonial citizen. In the absence of any legal

claimant, custody of her granddaughter, Cristabeth Janis

Lemoine, has fallen to the State of New Florida.

As per the decedent's instructions, you are hereby

ordered to present the child at Social Monitor Division for

further determination. Failure to comply within five

days will result in punitive action.

Freedor Belvin

Colonial Solicitor

Simple words. Justrelle Lemoine was gone—the one legal obstacle that for twelve years had barred Spock from his own child, and his sole security against the pain of dealing with Adrianna's daughter. There remained no one to dispute his claim as natural father, should he now assert it. And if he chose not to? In any cast, the child must be told about her grandmother, and that unpleasant task now fell to him. Even in death Justrelle would have her revenge.

ooooo

"One Thermogran, as prescribed." This morning Doctor McCoy personally dropped a blue tablet into the captain's outstretched hand. Spock swallowed the medication without comment, his attention on the track island where Mister Sulu was relentlessly battering a punching bag.

"Where's your young running companion?" wondered McCoy a bit uneasily. Unless Cristabeth made a quick appearance, he would be forced to suit up and make good on his brandy-induced promise. "Isn't it just like a woman to be late?"

"I suspect she will arrive shortly, bristling with hostile energy and primed for competition."

"I suspect you're right," mused McCoy, his discerning eyes on Mister Sulu, who by now had worked up quite a sweat. "Hey, _there's_ a likely candidate for V'Asumi—all that pent aggression. Why not give him a chance to work it out on you?" …w _here it belongs,_ seemed to float, unspoken, in the air.

In an overly patient tone Spock explained, "Emotions, most particularly antagonistic emotions, have no place in the disciplined combat of Asumi. Even were Sulu to compose himself, I could not issue a challenge to an untrained opponent—only to one possessing skill equaling or greater than my own."

"I'm talking about a friendly workout," growled McCoy, "not some martial arts competition. You Vulcans take everything so damn seriously."

Spock's eyebrow edged higher, but he refrained from detailing the ancient and profoundly intricate Asumi code. His attention drifted back to Sulu, to the lithe strength that was, admittedly, well suited for the discipline. He could not help but imagine working his muscles against those of his second-in-command.

Light, feminine footsteps drew Spock from his reverie. He turned and his expression became grave as he inspected the child at Uhura's side. Cristabeth wore a scaled-down duplicate of his own gray warm-up suit, right down to its maroon piping and Starfleet insignia. Even their Reeboks matched. "I see," he dryly noted, "that you have availed yourself of the ship's fabricators."

Cristabeth only smirked.

"The selections were hers, sir," revealed Uhura.

McCoy's grin spread unrestrained from ear to ear. Dressed alike, the father-daughter resemblance was never more striking. He wished Admiral Kirk were here to see this—but of course Jim did not even know the child existed.

"Have you fulfilled the requirement I set for you?" Spock's tone was that of a superior officer addressing a raw recruit. Seeing Cristabeth's confusion, he clarified. "The matter of your conduct."

She gave a careless shrug. "I guess I did alright."

"Sir," prompted Uhura.

Another shrug and definite frown as she added, "Sir."

Uhura nodded her approval. The child's behavior had shown a marked improvement, but she could not help wondering what lurked beneath those scheming eyes. A hint of a smile stirred Cristabeth's mouth as she entered the track and took her place beside the captain. Its meaning quickly became clear. As soon as they started running, she sprinted far ahead. "Racing again! That obstinate little rascal, she promised to _jog_ with him."

Sulu came over and joined the spectators. Chuckling, he said, "Nothing wrong with a little healthy competition."

McCoy kept his thoughts to himself, watching the child's every stride as she lapped her father. Just as Chapel had described, only this time Spock seemed to have no intention of catching the mischievous little whirlwind. After being lapped four times, the Vulcan pulled up suddenly and walked toward them. McCoy did not like the look in Spock's eyes.

"My cue to go," Sulu said and darted for the changing room.

Uhura tossed up her hands in a hopeless gesture. "If I'd known what she was planning…"

"Oh, come on—Spock's ego isn't the problem," McCoy said under his breath. "Whatever's wrong, it's not that kid tryin' to outshine him."

Cristabeth was well into her third kilometer when the captain blew in like a Vulcan storm cloud.

"Sir, I told her—" began Uhura, but Spock cut her off sharply.

"Never mind. The child is my responsibility and she will accompany me after I change."

When the Vulcan was safely out of earshot, McCoy muttered, "Cranky. Maybe the kid _did_ get under that thick hide of his, after all." He felt surprisingly protective toward Cristabeth and was tempted to sneak her away somewhere safe. But Spock _was_ her father. If he were ever to learn that role, he would need time alone with the child. McCoy could only hope that spunky Cristabeth would survive the learning.

Cristabeth was cooling down from her long run when the captain returned for her. He gave the child a look neither McCoy nor Uhura could interpret, but it did not bode well.

"Come with me," Spock told her.

For an instant Cristabeth held back, ready to refuse, but then she thought better of it. Head lifted high, she walked beside the stern Vulcan, determined to conceal her fear. This was only the second time they had been alone together. What could he possibly want with her? Glancing sidelong at his forbidding profile, she shuddered. Yes, she truly hated him. She must never let herself stop hating him.

Spock was too occupied with his own concerns to notice Cristabeth's tension. Leading her to his quarters, he seated the child in a comfortable chair. The room temperature had been lowered for her comfort. Thinking she might be thirsty from her long run, he offered her water, which she coolly declined.

Now there was no delaying this. Spock had planned everything, carefully selecting words that might soften the blow. But now, standing before the child—Adrianna's daughter—he could not think how to begin. The golden brown of her eyes held him for a long moment.

Nervous from Spock looming over her, she blurted, "Are you going to beat me? You think I'm a brat. I heard you agreeing with Doctor Chapel—'touché', you said, and I know what that means. You're the captain, so you can do whatever you want around here. But you better not hit me or…or I'll scream so loud that the entire crew will bust in here!"

Taken aback by the speech, Spock searched her defiant face. "Are you accustomed to beatings?"

She struggled with her answer, settling reluctantly on the unexciting truth. "No."

"Then…I frighten you. Is that it?"

She stared at the floor in silence.

Spock sat down opposite her and for the first time called the child by name. "Cristabeth. I brought you here only so that we can speak in private. Unfortunately, what I must say will be painful for you to hear. I realize that I am little more than a stranger, but as your father it is my responsibility to pass bad news on to you."

She studied him through narrowed eyes. "What bad news?"

Taking a slow breath, Spock said, "I am sorry to tell you that your grandmother has died." He had braced himself for hysterics, but the stillness that followed his words proved equally disturbing. Then the silence broke.

"No." Cristabeth stood and shook her head in firm denial. "Not Mama. You're lying! That's it—you just want to keep me away from her!"

Spock had not expected to have his honesty questioned. Nevertheless, he looked upon her with some compassion. "It is the truth, child. She was very ill, you were aware of that. Your grandmother brought you here because she was dying."

"But she _didn't_ die!" Cristabeth insisted. "I don't believe you! I want off your stinking ship! I want to go home!"

Spock rose, at a temporary loss at how to proceed. He settled on reason rather than discipline. "Cristabeth, even were I to take you home, you could not remain there by yourself. However, if we attend your grandmother's funeral, we could _visit_ your home afterward."

"Home?" She seized on the single word. "You promise?"

"Yes, after the funeral." Spock hoped the time-honored ritual of grieving would help Cristabeth accept her grandmother's death.

The child backed toward the door, her face gone cold and calculating. "Just remember, you promised. But there won't be any funeral, you'll see."

ooooo

Somehow Sulu was not surprised when the captain took him aside at completion of another day's trade session. Spock had been there in body only. Now, with the assembly room emptied of all but a chatting pair of Ildarans, the Vulcan spoke so that he could not possibly be overheard. "Mister Sulu, I must go planetside tomorrow morning. You will represent me at that meeting and assist the Federation envoy."

Sulu's jaw dropped. "But Captain, negotiations are at a decisive stage. Can't you postpone this other business…or assign it to someone else?" It made no sense at all for Spock to steadfastly avoid Ildarani, only to beam down now, at this crucial juncture.

"Impossible," Spock said with finality. "The matter demands my personal attention."

"Unlike the trade conference," Sulu interjected recklessly. "Frankly, Captain, I don't understand. This is completely illogical." It was the worst thing he could have said to a Vulcan, and Sulu instantly regretted his choice of words. "Sir, I…what I mean is…"

Spock's retort silenced him like a phaser blast. "Your meaning is clear, Mister. If you find my actions unacceptable, there are specific measures outlined in the Starfleet Manual of Procedures."

Sulu was appalled. "Captain, I wasn't suggesting—"

"Then carry out your orders."

ooooo

Once again, he had overreacted. Spock knew that he was largely responsible for the increasing friction between himself and Sulu, a fine officer. The problem had been forming even before this mission to Ildarani and involved more than Sulu's yearning for command. It was the same problem that arose wherever Vulcans worked in close proximity with humans. To perform their best, humans required a friendlier rapport than Spock could manage. He generally followed his own counsel, seldom sharing the motivations that might have endeared him to his crew. For this reason—this fierce personal reserve common to Vulcans—he was sometimes viewed as arrogant.

Disheartened by the recent confrontations, Spock reflected, _Am I, in fact, arrogant?_ It was a question with no easy answer. His thoughts further darkened as night settled over the Enterprise. Tension sent him pacing the starship corridors well after the hour when most day watch personnel were asleep in their bunks; a dreary hour he might have passed with Jim Kirk in a game of chess and quiet conversation. On nights such as this he particularly missed his former captain. Kirk's departure had left a deep void in his life, and recent actions only served to further isolate him. The situation must not continue. Beginning tomorrow he would actively seek ways to improve his relationship with Commander Sulu.

Meanwhile, Spock roamed the Enterprise like a restless shadow, reaching into remote areas he seldom took time to visit. The final leg of his tour brought him through the eerie depths of the interhull, where he surprised more than one couple emerging from the privacy cubicles scattered among the bracings. Judging by their obvious embarrassment, they had been engaged in a favorite human pastime.

Spock wondered how they could find a purely physical joining so pleasurable. Did they ever crave a deeper intimacy? Was it this lack that drove so many of them from bed to bed? His thoughts drifted to Cristabeth's mother—to the feel of her mind joining his, and their bodies touching. A sudden, painful longing for her welled up inside him.

Disgusted with himself, Spock thrust the memories aside. He had been used, nothing more. Adrianna was more cold and conniving than T'Pring. Under her Sy-jeera spell, he would have cast aside his betrothed for her. In the end, it was T'Pring who cast Spock aside, leaving him with no one. Alone, he turned toward his cabin and the healing meditation that had carried him through these past days.

At deck five he met Uhura in the night-dimmed corridor near his quarters. "Late to bed," he said in greeting, "or rising early?"

Uhura brushed the question aside. "Captain, I've been looking all over for you. It's Cristy."

 _Cristy._ So the name had undergone yet another transformation. "I gather she has been difficult?"

"No…yes _._ " Then again, Uhura firmly decided, " _No._ At least not the sort of difficult you probably mean. The child is so quiet. She's so…withdrawn. Ever since that time with you, she's hardly said a word. She just mopes. Right now she's lying in her bunk staring at the ceiling."

"I see."

Uhura looked at him for a long moment, her expression determinedly patient. "Captain, I know it's not your way to show concern, but she's acting so strangely. I don't know what happened between you, but maybe…if you talked to her…"

Spock shook his head. "I doubt that would be of any help."

"You _doubt!"_ Uhura's incredulous response shattered the early morning stillness. She clamped her mouth shut, but every rigid inch of her conveyed a dim view of Spock's parenting. "Captain," she said through her teeth, "it's obvious that you don't have much experience with children. Can't you at least _try?_ "

Her remark stung Spock beyond all reason. A Vulcan required neither understanding nor approval, yet unaccountably he did want Uhura to understand him. Like Justrelle Lamoine, she was questioning his competence as a parent. It did not help that he was also questioning himself.

"Say what you really think," he urged, "off the record." But she kept her disapproving silence, and Spock's temper rose. "You think I am arrogant and uncaring. Is that not correct? Perhaps you think I've deliberately done something to hurt the child."

In the shadows, Uhura studied his face. Her tone became softer. "No, Spock, I don't want to believe that, but what _am_ I to think? Why can't you just explain?"

Her heartfelt appeal called for a candid response. But stripped of his Vulcan face, words did not come easily for Spock. "Perhaps…I should have informed you. The child's grandmother has died. She does not want to believe me. The truth is too painful for her to accept. If there is any way _you_ can help her…"

"Oh no," Uhura sighed, "the poor thing." Glancing right and left over the deserted corridor, she snared her startled captain in a swift hug.

She was gone before Spock could collect himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Spock's heart pounded as he took position beside Cristabeth on the transporter platform. It was more than the thought of dealing with the child and her emotions, though that was a formidable prospect. It was Ildarani itself, the lush paradise where he had met Cristabeth's alluring mother and succumbed to her alien wiles. No, this time he was not beaming into a government building for a diplomatic function. And now, in this final instant, Spock wondered how he would deal with his own emotions.

They emerged from effervescent darkness into the bustling spaceport of New Florida. Quickly Spock took the child's hand before she could escape into the crowd. Her emotions lapped at his consciousness—mainly relief to be off the ship—and he shielded against the contact. For a moment he remained on the relay pad, working through the personal jolt of remembrance. The port had changed very little in twelve years.

Lost in her separate thoughts, Cristabeth murmured something. Spock found a smile stealing over the youngster's face. Not the sullen smirk that so repelled him, but something completely new—an honest, unaffected grin of delight. Never had she looked so thoroughly unVulcan, or so attractive in the flowered sundress Uhura had fabricated for her.

Spock assisted her from the platform. Heads turned as they walked through the terminal. Vulcans were rare in this colony world, even more so a Vulcan wearing the uniform of a Starfleet captain. As they stepped out into the sunlit Ildaran afternoon, Cristabeth inhaled the pollen-fragrant air and laughed. The rich, joyous sound was unlike Adrianna's bubbling laughter, yet somehow familiar to Spock. With a jolt he remembered the few instances in his life when he had actually laughed aloud. The sounds were very similar.

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, he cast about for something to say. In the end he resorted to scientific data. "You may experience a disorientation from the relative time disparity." Cristabeth's blank look called for further explanation. "The Enterprise operates on Earth's Pacific Standard Time, approximately five-point-three hours behind New Florida time. As you can see, the sun is well past its zenith."

The smile vanished completely, and with it the curious aura of beauty. Cristabeth scowled. "You're hurting my hand. Let go of me."

Spock did not quite believe her. Nevertheless, he readjusted his grip on the uncooperative fingers before continuing on. He hailed a cab, which drove them to the cemetery gate. From there, it was a short walk over level paths, but with each step the child increasingly dragged her feet until it became an effort to pull her along.

Finally Spock stopped. "I realize this is not pleasant for you," he said, not unkindly, "but it is important that you see the truth for yourself. If necessary, I will carry you."

Cristabeth's eyes flamed with hate. "I'll walk, okay? Just let go!"

Spock had no choice but to refuse. Holding her hand tightly, they arrived on the grassy knoll as the funeral was beginning. Only eight colonists attended the memorial. Ignoring their curious glances, Spock securely seated Cristabeth beside him. The child dug her fingernails into his palm throughout the service. Her eyes remained locked on the blue metallic coffin, but she did not shed a tear. When the last of the mourners had drifted away, Spock turned to her and spoke gently. "I am sorry for your loss, Cristabeth. I know your grandmother was very dear to you."

The child sat unmoving.

"Would you like to visit your home now?" Spock asked her. Without looking at him, she nodded.

There was a route near the cemetery that Spock remembered well, a narrow foot trail that briefly entered the New Florida treeclan—habitat of those plantlike beings he had helped research years ago. He was not surprised to find the "Treeple" unchanged. Even a century would leave little mark on these long-lived creatures. Pausing to touch the pseudo-bark of an ancient female, he offered silent greeting and was welcomed by a tranquil flow of life energy.

Cristabeth's voice distracted him. "What are you doing?"

"Communicating," Spock told her. "Have you ever placed your fingers on the bark and opened yourself to their thoughts? It may be that you have inherited some Vulcan telepathic ability."

She had silently watched the meld process and seemed genuinely interested. "You mean these shaggy old trees really do think? Can I try?" Already touching the warm epidermis with her free hand, she tugged against Spock's grip.

He let go—and the child took off at a sprint. In the blink of an eye she darted into the shadowy depths of the treeclan. Recovering from his surprise, Spock ran after her and caught sight of the child as she dove into the next thicket. From there, she led him through a maze of divergent paths that she obviously knew well. This was, after all, her territory. She had no trouble keeping beyond his reach, steadily increasing the distance between them until she disappeared completely.

For several minutes Spock searched unsuccessfully before coming to a halt in a small, shady clearing. There was no birdsong or drone of insects. The silence was absolute, except for the blood pounding in his ears. Inwardly berating himself, he called to the Enterprise for a tricorder and awaited its arrival. He had suspected Cristabeth would attempt to escape him, but he had allowed her to bolt, anyway—here, in this land where death prowled after dark. What was one child more or less to a hungry bengati? A single bite of its serpentine jaws, a mere mouthful…

A sudden ringing signaled an impending transport, and a tricorder appeared at his feet. He quickly ran a 360-degree scan for humanoid life signs. _Yes._ She was there—quite near, in fact—crouched behind a thick Tree. Stealthily Spock approached her hiding place until only the trunk stood between them. He let the tricorder hang free at his side. With his hands raised and ready, he gathered himself and lunged for her. But he had underestimated the child's reflexes and animosity.

Though her arms were a blur of motion, Spock saw the club coming. Instinctively he acted to protect his face, but the weapon took a low sweep, slamming hard into his abdomen. A gasp of pain escaped him. Breathless, he doubled over and barely managed to fend off a second blow aimed at his head. Seizing the child's arms, he pinned her against the Tree. She thrashed and kicked at him, but still holding her tight he moved aside, effectively avoiding her feet.

"Stop it!" he ordered. "That's enough!"

She ignored him. He tore the calcified branch from her grip and hurled it away. Now that she was weaponless and held fast, her struggles subsided until only her face spat defiance. Spock looked upon this girl who seemed little more than a barbarian and considered dealing with her in a way she would clearly understand. His middle ached from the unexpected blow, this shocking violence of child against elder. Such an affront would not happen on Vulcan, nor would he tolerate it here.

Meeting the fury in her eyes, he warned, "Strike me again, and it will not go well for you."

After a taut moment she hissed, "Alright! I heard you!"

But gradually her bravado failed and she turned shakily from Spock's gaze—a yielding of sorts, as much as he could expect from such a child. Taking care that one of her hands remained firmly in his grasp, he moved her down the nearest path. It was a silent trek back to the settlement, on trails strewn with troubling memories. Only his promise to Cristabeth kept Spock from returning to the Enterprise immediately. Though her behavior was reprehensible, he had given his word.

Cristabeth accompanied him with apparent meekness to Justrelle Lemoine's doorstep. The house was isolated from its neighbors by tall, dense hedges planted in the intervening years. The porch trellis had become a solid wall of vine, thick with white honey-scented flowers that rambled about the curtained windows.

Spock tried the door. "It seems we are locked out," he observed, glad to be spared the ordeal of actually entering.

"No we're not," said Cristabeth. Poking around in the porch foliage, she retrieved a hidden access card and coolly placed it in his hand. Her eyes narrowed at him, and her touch lingered a bit longer than necessary.

An odd sensation came over Spock.

Then it struck. Waves of raw emotion pounded his mental barriers—grief, rage, hatred—an assault so unexpected and jarring that he shoved the child from him with an invective. "You devious little Sy—" He barely checked himself in time and began over. "Forcing mental contact is…is despicable!"

The savage thrust of his words held Cristabeth immobile, all notion of escape temporarily forgotten. But it did not matter to Spock anymore—come what may, he would not touch the creature again. He had had enough of her uncivilized antics, and clearly she wanted no part of him. When they finished here, he would call for a direct beam-up to the Social Monitor Division and hand her over to the state.

Spock moved to unlock the door.

"I…I didn't know," Cristabeth stammered behind him. "I didn't mean…"

That, Spock doubted. He had seen the conniving look on her face, and apparently he had learned a painful lesson about the power of a budding Sy-jeera. Ignoring her, he opened the door and went inside. He had expected many changes here. Of course, the room would appear different. Walls, carpet, furnishings—twelve years of redecoration. Yet by the soft light streaming through the curtains, he could not help searching for some familiar objects. He could not entirely quell his disappointment at finding so few. Adrianna no longer lived here, except in memories of the most wrenching sort. Ready to leave, he turned.

Cristabeth stood frozen in place, her face very white. With a shiver she said, "It…it's cold in here."

"We'll go now," Spock told her. 

"No," she said, "please, not yet. I want to get some things."

Spock followed her down the hallway, past her grandmother's empty chamber, to her own bedroom. At the doorway he hesitated. The strange, girlish trappings could not allay the ache of recollection. He could almost _feel_ Adrianna here.

"Do you think there's ghosts?" Cristabeth whispered apprehensively.

 _Absurd,_ thought Spock, _and yet.._. He gave himself a mental shake. "Of course not."

In a hushed voice she said, "This was my mother's bedroom. Her name was Adrianna and she died when I was born. She was a lot more beautiful than me—but then, I guess you know all that."

"Yes." He knew all that. Adrianna had been remarkably beautiful…and remarkably treacherous.

The child picked up something from her bedside table and held it out to him. With a searing flash of recognition, Spock took the holographic image into his hands.

"It's her," Cristabeth said.

 _As if he needed an introduction_. Minutes passed unmeasured while his eyes devoured the golden likeness. Days merged with nights, weeks flashed by, long lonely years compressed inward to crush him with their emptiness. And all the while Adrianna smiled knowingly within the confines on her Argian crystal plate—agonizingly exquisite and forever beyond his reach. In his life there were few material objects Spock truly cared about. Suddenly, this shiny bit of glass outweighed them all—a precious treasure, a dangerous temptation that made his blood run hot. _What was wrong with him? How could he love her still?_

At last, he managed to say, "This is…very special." His hands trembled a bit as he returned the hologram to its rightful owner.

Cristabeth's eye widened. "You really _did_ love her!"

Spock's face warmed and he turned to a window. He was not sure how to handle the child's blunt remark, or his reflexive feeling of shame. It had taken Vejur, a barren machine intellect, to show him the intrinsic value of emotion, properly used. He could acknowledge that now. But there was nothing proper in the emotions Adrianna evoked from him. They were mindless responses to the captivating wiles of a Sy-jeera—nothing more.

He cast about for some delicate way out of this. "Your mother was…an unusual woman."

"And you _loved_ her," the child persisted as she plopped down on her bed. "I've heard that Vulcans are heartless, but I'm part Vulcan like you, and I have feelings."

" _That_ is certainly evident," Spock said with some sarcasm.

Cristabeth's face clouded. "So…you felt nothing for Mother, then. And you can't really love anyone." Miserably she added, "No wonder you stayed away all my life." The hologram slipped through her fingers and landed with a soft thud on the carpet.

The sound drew Spock's attention. He focused on the crystal's captivating image before looking at Cristabeth. How had she arrived at such an erroneous conclusion? But why say more? What difference would it make at this point? The state of New Florida was waiting to receive her, and he would return to the quiet, orderly routine to which he was accustomed.

Cristabeth was on the verge of tears. "Now I know why Mama would never talk about you. When I was little, I used to daydream about my father. He was someone kind and wonderful. He wanted so badly to come for me, but he was being held captive on some alien planet."

"Fantasies," Spock declared. "An illogical waste of time. You should concern yourself only with reality—accept the truth and live with it. To do anything less it to fool yourself."

Her tears brimmed over and ran down her cheeks as she gazed at him. "Then tell me, Captain. Just tell me. What _is_ the truth?"

He was properly trapped now. Throat tightening, he glanced aside as he considered his reply. Then quietly he said, "Perhaps…your dreams were not so far wrong, after all. There are many kinds of prisons in this universe."

"Then you _did_ care? Wherever you were, you cared about me?"

Spock cleared his throat. "Parental concern is natural. You are my child."

Her lower lip began a quivering dance of despair. "Some parents…feel more. _Mamá_ loved me. Oh, why did she have to die? I don't want to be all alone…" Choking, she threw herself facedown on the bed and began to sob.

Spock waited in acute discomfort for the storm of emotion to pass, but the child continued weeping. If only he could voice the simple words she so desperately needed to hear. But he could not lie to her, or to himself. At last, his rising sense of guilt drew him to the bed, and he sat beside her. Tentatively he reached out his hand. It was still longer before he could bring himself to touch the distraught child, awkwardly, on her thin convulsing shoulder.

He said, "You are not…quite alone." And he gave the shoulder a little squeeze.

Abruptly she sat up, and throwing her arms tightly around him, buried her face in his middle. With his mind shielded from her emotions, it was not so very difficult to hold her, Spock discovered after a time. And with the nearness came an unexpected dawning of compassion. As her crying subsided, he was content to sit gazing at the soft, dark hair sliding through his fingertips over and over again, content to feel the pressure of her hands on his back.

He noticed the room's chill deepening. Taking off his uniform jacket, he arranged it around her. For once he was not bothered by the cold, for there was a pleasant sense of warmth inside him. "Cristabeth," he said gently, "because I am Vulcan…because I never contacted you, I might seem uncaring." Sitting quietly, she wiped her eyes. Spock did not look at her. Perhaps that made it easier for them both. "The reasons for my absence are complicated, and I will not, cannot explain them at this time. But I want you to understand about Vulcans and this myth…this misconception that we lack emotions. Believe me when I tell you: beneath the rigid layers of self-discipline, there exist the usual array of feelings."

She gazed up at him thoughtfully. "Then…you're really human inside?"

He was beginning to perspire like a nervous human from the scattering of glands in his hybrid skin. "No," he tried to explain, "I am not human, but neither am I entirely Vulcan. I am—"

"A halfling, like Mother!" With a tremulous smile, she leaned over and reached under the mattress. She came up holding a small, tattered book. "I know. It's all right here. The way you met Mother, the way she felt about you. All her worries and her dreams—everything."

Spock stopped breathing. _Everything?_

Cristabeth placed the book in his lap. "It's Mother's diary. I found it here under the mattress when I was eight, but I never told Mama. I was afraid she'd take it away."

Letting out his breath, Spock touched the worn cover. His fingertips lingered over the faded blue velvet.

"Go ahead, read it," urged Cristabeth. She flipped the book open. Neat rows of handwriting filled the pages. "Don't worry. When it gets to _that_ part, it only says that you _slept_ with her. I already knew you did because I'm here. Right?"

Spock was too mortified to venture a comment. His eyes lit on the letters of his name. It was a poem—a _love_ poem. He wanted to close the diary. He wanted to tear it to shreds, destroy it along with every other painful memory of that time. Instead, he turned a page. Then another and another as the simple, moving phrases drew him deeply into an unexpected past.

Where was Adrianna's cunning? Her sadistic pleasure in controlling her male victim?

"…I am so confused," he read. "I feel it flowing out of me again. I feel him trying to resist, I feel him responding, and I don't know how to stop it. Yes, I love him. I want him more than anything, but must it always be like _this…?"_

"…It would almost be better if he despised me. Oh, how it would hurt, but at least I'd be sure that his feelings were his own. I could go on loving him, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. In a sad way it would be wonderful…"

"…I love it when he shares his mind with me, but it's a little frightening, too. I have my secrets. He probably has his. What happens if everything comes out in the open? I know I can handle anything he might tell me. It's _him_ I worry about, and what he'll think of me if he finds out…"

Spock felt a nudge. He found a wide pair of hazel eyes questioning him. Cristabeth said, "There are things in there I don't understand."

He could scarcely understand it, himself. How could he possibly explain his complicated relationship with Adrianna to a child— _her_ child? It seemed that he had lived the past twelve years believing a half-truth. He had listened to Justrelle Lemoine instead of his own heart.

In solemn retrospect, Spock said, "It was…a very difficult time." Nor was it over, by any means. As long as there were memories of Adrianna, there would be questions that no diary could fully answer.

He became aware of the light fading from the windows. For once he had lost track of the hour, and suddenly realized that the state offices would soon be closing. Steeling himself, he returned the diary and said, "Gather your things. It's time to leave."

Cristabeth handed him his jacket and took one of her own from a closet. She put the hologram and diary into a small tote, along with a few childish treasures. Then she solemnly stood before him.

"Is there nothing more?" Spock asked her. She shook her head. Outside, he noticed, the day had given way to dusk. Slowly he rose and put on his jacket, taking more time than usual to fasten the turnbuckles.

"I'm hungry," she said. "Are you calling a cab?"

Spock met her eyes. A cab would cause even more delay. There was simply no time for it. He touched the communicator on his uniform emblem…and ordered a cab. It was almost dark when the cab arrived. The Social Monitor office would be closed. They rode in silence to the spaceport.

As they were walking to the transporter station, Cristabeth suddenly stopped and looked up at him. "If your last name is Spock, what's your first name?"

He raised an eyebrow. "By that, I assume you mean my given name. You see, on Vulcan, the clan name comes first. Spock _is_ my given name. Like most Vulcans, I use it generically, as it is easier for offworlders to pronounce."

She looked rather bewildered. "…Um…so then…what's your _last_ name—I mean your clan name?"

There was no time for Spock to answer. In his periphery he observed a man striding toward them. Fair, tall, Terran-extract humanoid—Spock recognized him at once from the funeral service.

"Captain Spock of the U.S.S. Enterprise," the man said.

"Yes," Spock replied, quietly appraising the well-dressed stranger.

The man flashed an identification badge on the lapel of his suit. "Freedor Belvin, Colonial Solicitor." His pale gray eyes shifted. "And this is Cristabeth Janis Lemoine, colonial ward of New Florida. Goodeve." He inclined his blond head slightly, in the Vulcan manner.

With some effort Spock returned the courtesy.

Belvin gazed at him coldly. "It seems you've had some difficulty locating the Social Monitor Division. I can assist you."

At his words, Cristabeth latched onto Spock's arm, a move that jarred him to the soles of his boots. His daughter was afraid—and in her fear she was turning to him for protection. Did she fully grasp Belvin's intent? Had her grandmother warned her?

Spock carefully phrased his words. "Your concern is praiseworthy, Solicitor, but we have carried out all our plans for today. The child has had an upsetting time. She's hungry and tired and anxious to beam aboard ship. I regret if we have inconvenienced you."

Belvin's lips parted in an insincere smile. "This is not a matter of convenience, Captain. It is a matter of law. Less than twenty-four hours remain. Should you…inadvertently…

Spock quickly interrupted. "Be assured, your instructions will be followed to the letter. Now, if you will excuse us…"

Belvin moved to bar Spock's passage. "My office as Colonial Solicitor gives me authority, if I see fit, to—"

"One moment," Spock cut in. Gently disengaging his arm from Cristabeth, he drew Belvin aside for a hushed consultation. "Even in the best of circumstances, the child is, shall I say, a very headstrong young lady. Forcing her to go with you tonight would surely precipitate a disagreeable scene."

"That is not my concern," Belvin said haughtily.

Spock found it increasingly difficult to conceal his dislike for the inflexible bureaucrat. "I am only asking that you wait until tomorrow. By then I will have had time to prepare the child."

"You have had ample time already."

That, Spock could not deny. "I give you my word—as a Vulcan—that I will personally deliver her to the Social Monitor Division. On time."

Belvin looked over to where Cristabeth stood waiting. She stared back at him with open hostility. "Very well," he said. "This one reprieve only—provided that Cristabeth shows no inclination to go with me."

Spock was in no position to disagree. He followed in silence as Belvin approached the child.

"My dear Cristabeth," Belvin addressed her with a show of straight, white teeth. "Wouldn't you rather spend the night here in New Florida? I'll take you out for dinner, and you can stay in a home full of other little girls just like you. They'll be your friends."

Cristabeth imbedded herself in Spock's side, and somehow his arm went around her. "T'Beth?" he prompted, spontaneously contracting the name that had never quite suited him. Meeting her questioning glance, he repeated its pleasing Vulcan sound. "T'Beth, do you wish to stay with this kind official?"

Perhaps she had heard him _too_ well. Glowering at the solicitor, she answered, "Not in a pig's eye!"

Freedor Belvin's pale gaze chilled to ice as he stepped aside, bowing a trifle too low. Had he lashed out and cuffed the impish child, Spock might have struck him down...but during the course of the beaming process, Spock recovered his Vulcan composure. He expected Cristabeth to come off the transporter pad as cocky as an Ildaran brushcat. Instead, she was quite subdued.

In full view of transporter crew, he admonished her. "You were exceedingly disrespectful toward Mister Belvin."

The child only shrugged. "But Doctor McCoy says it. 'In a pig's eye'—I heard him."

A sound suspiciously like chuckling escaped a trainee, but one wilting glance from her captain put an end to it. Spock moved Cristabeth into the corridor and in a disapproving tone informed her, "Commander Uhura is on her way. She will take you to the dining room. Afterward, you will go to her cabin. Find in the library reader the lesson entitled 'Fundamental Human Courtesy'. Write it down and study it. Be assured, I will question you on the material."

ooooo

At first, Sulu had felt relieved. Under his guidance, the morning trade session had resulted in an agreement that left all parties more or less appeased, with the Federation's vital interests preserved. By week's end the documents would be drawn up, duly signed, and recorded. _All's well that ends well,_ he had thought…until Spock emerged from a trainee class and invited him into the captain's quarters for a late dinner. Now, trying not to squirm, Sulu picked at the food on his plate. Never before had Spock called him to the 'inner sanctum' for a meal. Why the change? After nearly a year, it made Sulu damned nervous. He kept expecting a tongue-lashing.

Seated across from him, Spock took a bit of Ando-Saurian fruit salad and continued reviewing the conference transcript on his Padd.

"Captain," ventured Sulu, "about yesterday…"

"Yes." Spock's eyes remained on the Padd display.

Sulu took a sip of water to moisten his mouth. "Sir, I wasn't questioning your ability to command…or reason."

The Vulcan calmly looked up. "I realize that, Mister Sulu. Neither of us was at our best yesterday. I should have told you then that I appreciate the effort you've invested in this conference." Pushing aside his Padd, he speared a blue wedge of melon and chewed meditatively while Sulu reeled from the shocking morsel of praise.

Spock swallowed and set down his fork. "Our difficulties this past week indicate a serious need for better communication between us. Don't you agree, Mister Sulu?"

Sulu nodded a bit dazedly.

"In the future I will make myself more available to you, both on and off duty. I want you to feel free to approach me on any matter that concerns you, and in turn I will attempt to be more…informative." Spock considered his fruit salad, the tabletop, the golden band on Sulu's ring finger. "To that end, I am informing you that I paid a visit to the interhull last night, where I observed the usual…traffic."

Sulu nearly choked. He was a married man. The gosh-awful notion flashed into his mind that Spock thought he had seen _him_ there. Oh," he managed to squeeze out. "Really?"

"Yes, Sulu. Two of them appeared quite youthful. In fact, they were trainees—and fraternization of that sort is strictly against regulations."

Visibly relaxing, Sulu said, "Yes, sir. Against regulations…but I suppose there's always something of that sort going on." He could not resist adding, "There's a certain Cadet Kirk who had quite a reputation…or so I've heard."

Spock's eyebrow quirked upward. "Yes. There have been persistent rumors to that effect." He interlaced his fingers on the table's edge. "The mission of the Enterprise is one of exploration, but during training missions it also functions as a school. We are a Space-bound city, a predominantly human community subject to those strengths and failings inherent in all humankind. As you phrased it, 'there's always something of that sort going on'. And while I cannot overlook cadet violations, I also recognize the need for a…balanced perspective." Pausing briefly, he finished, "I am putting the guilty parties in your charge, Hikaru. Do keep them busy."

For an instant Sulu doubted his hearing. Had Spock really said "Hikaru"? Just an hour ago, he could not have imagined this easy conversation. Breaking into a smile, he said, "Yes sir, I will—I'll keep them _very_ busy."

ooooo

In the old days it had not been unusual to see a tall, slim exec walking the corridors beside his captain, sharing unhurried conversation. It came to be expected, as if the then-Commander Spock were a Vulcan extension of the human Kirk. Of course there had been a few jokes from the lower ranks—some less than appropriate—but Sulu had never tolerated them within earshot. Finding himself in a similar position now, he was glad of his consistent loyalty. Pride lightened his step as he accompanied Captain Spock through the Enterprise. This was as it should be, as it should have been from the beginning. He offered silent thanks to whatever Vulcan god of logic had worked this miraculous change.

Eventually the tour brought them to the recreation deck, where a handful of personnel were enjoying their off-hours. Sounds of splashing and laughter drifted out from the pool area. Balls thudded off court walls. The plaintive strains of a Dulo harp weaved intriguing harmonies with a Spanish guitar.

Moving on, they came at last to the track-gymnasium. In the center island two young crewmen were making use of the body building equipment—and judging by their thick muscles, the pair were not new to weight training.

"Look at those kids," Sulu said with a hint of envy. He seldom found enough time anymore—or the partners—to practice the martial arts and swordplay he enjoyed. He told himself it was the many demands of his position as executive officer. But maybe it was just plain old-fashioned inertia or—he winced at the twinge of sore muscles from his recent workouts—maybe it was a touch of age.

"Interesting," murmured Spock as a grunting power lifter hoisted his barbell overhead. "But lacking in grace."

Sulu had to agree. "I've always preferred karate. Too bad I've let myself slip this past year."

"Practice is necessary to maintain any skill." Spock clasped his hands behind him. His next words were oddly hesitant. "Hikaru…do you recall Asumi, the ancient warrior discipline of Vulcan?"

Sulu could hardly have forgotten. Those bone-jarring sessions between Captain Kirk and Spock had been great entertainment—and the side bets were sometimes profitable, too. It was always a challenge predicting the winner—or rather, whom Spock would allow to win. "Yes, sir, I remember. It's been a long time."

Spock nodded pensively. "Perhaps overlong. Without practice I may soon be reduced to a yellow sash."

Kirk's level, as Sulu recalled, and quite an accomplishment for a human. Despite athletic ability and strenuous effort, he had never risen above it. Sulu briefly wondered why his captain was mentioning this. More oil for the rusty wheels of communication? Those brown Vulcan eyes were so watchful, so expectant.

The answer struck Sulu as his captain slowly turned for the corridor. _He's waiting to be asked!_ Dangling a fat Vulcan carrot under his first officer's rather obtuse nose. Say nothing, and they would simply continue on their tour—a pair of middle-aged men observing life from the sidelines.

"Captain?"

Spock swung around, his face unreadable. Sulu hoped to hell he was not making some horrendous blunder in Vulcan etiquette. "Captain…would you consider taking me on…as an Asumi initiate? Surely a poor challenge is better than no challenge at all."

Spock almost managed to look surprised as he said, "What a fascinating suggestion."

Within minutes Sulu emerged from a fabricator wearing a white Vulcan-style dobok. His white beginner's sash was in stark contrast to Spock's scarlet—the distinguishing mark of a master. Facing him on the mat, Sulu experienced a moment of serious doubt. What had he let himself in for? He tried to ignore the curious trainees and crewmembers gathering out of nowhere as Spock led him through the basic mirroring exercise of V'asumi. He tried to ignore his groaning muscles as he struggled to balance himself hand to hand, leg to leg, against sheer Vulcan rock. Each slow, deceptively simple-looking movement proved so arduous that he was soon slick with the sweat of concentrated effort…and primitive annoyance. He refused to be completely outdone by a man umpteen years his senior, even if Spock _was_ half Vulcan!

But Sulu's body was not entirely in agreement. With their hands joined, Spock began some impossible knee flex with opposing leg extension. Sulu teetered on the outer edge of balance and sprawled to the mat, taking Spock for a fall.

There was laughter. Sulu felt himself turning crimson. "Sorry," he mumbled, crawling out from under his captain.

Unruffled, Spock rose to his bare feet and resumed position, indicating the lesson would continue. His quiet voice held nothing but encouragement. "Free your mind, Hikaru. Let me be your guide."

Something strange happened when their hands met. The ring of spectators watching every maneuver was not quite so distracting. As Sulu followed Spock's patient instruction, the pain and stiffness left his muscles. And he forgot all about competing.

Moving through the exercise, Sulu seemed to sense an odd current flowing directly from Spock into his mind and body. He had never experienced anything like it. They began functioning as a unit, and the pleasure this brought Sulu was openly mirrored in Spock's eyes. The captain was really enjoying this!

Sulu let himself be lifted in a graceful roll over the captain's back. He landed catlike on his feet, ready for more. Spock did not disappoint him. Somewhere in the midst of the routine it occurred to Sulu that Spock was a born teacher. _Of course!_ He had only accepted starship command after the Enterprise was assigned to Academy training. Missions like this diplomatic milk run were the crosses Spock bore in order to work as instructor to his beloved trainees. That would explain a lot of things—practically everything but Spock's nervy little guest from Ildarani.

Across the mat, Spock detected a waver in the Asumi energy. Was his student tiring at last? He had thought never to face another human in whom the flow was so dynamic. Captain Kirk had struggled for days to achieve the grace Sulu had shown in this single lesson. Spock looked forward to developing his first officer's natural receptivity and limber strength.

Slowly now, he worked through first level T'hyvaj one last time—a dance of balance and brawn practiced by every Vulcan boy. It would do for today. Straightening, he gave the signal of completion and bowed formally to his new student. The spectators applauded.

Suddenly finding himself at the center of attention, Sulu grinned and ran off to the changing room. Spock was about to follow when the audience straggled away, revealing Doctor McCoy and a very wide-eyed girl. Spock's sense of satisfaction faded away. Since returning from Ildarani he had deliberately remained apart from Cristabeth and focussed his attention on his trainees and crew. But there was no avoiding the child or the life-altering decision thrust upon him by her very existence.

McCoy said, "Someone wanted to see you."

"Shouldn't she be in bed?" Spock questioned.

"Damn right," McCoy solidly agreed. "It's just shocking the way her parents let her run wild."

Cristabeth detached herself from the doctor before Spock could formulate a suitable response. Holding out a notebook, she said, "I thought you wanted to see this tonight."

Spock's memory jogged. "Ah…you have finished. Give me a moment to dress."

"We'll be in the lounge," said McCoy, steering Cristabeth out the gymnasium door.

When Spock returned in full uniform, the child looked up from a three-dimensional game board and gave him a subdued smile.

Seated beside her, McCoy said, "Tell me, Spock. After that lecture on Asumi protocol, you couldn't have challenged Sulu…or bribed him…or nerve pinched him. So how in blazes did you lure him onto the mat?"

Spock innocently shrugged an eyebrow. "Mister Sulu expressed an interest in the discipline. I assure you, Doctor, the lesson was at his request."

"…Which of course you didn't somehow wangle with inscrutable perfection."

"Excuse me," Cristabeth said with studied politeness, "but what does 'wangle' mean?"

Taking note of the time, Spock said, "The good doctor will happily explain it tomorrow. Come with me, Cristabeth. As long as you are still up, there is something I want to show you—but we must hurry."

He did not want McCoy watching them interact, and the destination Spock had in mind would provide some privacy as well as an amply source of impersonal conversation. He summoned a turbolift and they debarked onto the main observation deck. As the doors opened, Cristabeth gasped and ran toward the clearsteel windows with their dizzying orbital view.

"Oh," she cried with delight. "Doctor Chapel brought me here. I love it!"

Going to the upper level, she stood so the icy breath of deep Space touched her through the viewport. Spock went to her side and kept a careful watch over her. He had seen unsophisticated adult guests frightened to the verge of catatonia in this room, but children usually reacted in a positive manner.

He pointed out the cloud-swathed planet below. "That is Ildarani. New Florida lies almost directly beneath us, in the darkness of early morning."

"It's so beautiful from up here," she marveled.

Spock explained, "The Enterprise is in stationary orbit, which means we are maintaining our relative position to the planet. As a result, Ildarani appears to be standing still, when in reality both planet and ship are moving at many thousands of miles per hour." Aware of the time he said, "Look at the uppermost rim of the planet and you will witness a sunrise in Space." It was intended as a gentle warning, for as the system's star flamed into view, eyes were inexorably drawn to the spectacle. As if of its own accord, Spock's hand went to the small shoulder beside him. He felt her sharp intake of breath as delicate tendrils of light writhed upward from the planet. Then the moment passed, alignment shifted, loosing the star's blinding white energy into their faces.

Cristabeth whirled, her eyes aglow. She tried to speak, but failed. Two tears welled up and slid slowly down her cheeks, forcefully reminding Spock of another star-dazzled child, nose pressed to a shuttle viewport while his father, the ambassador, looked on.

Spock had come here hoping to avoid any emotional displays. Now he was forced to clear his throat before saying, "The enormity of the universe sometimes staggers the senses."

Cristabeth cast one final glance at the star-swept expanse. Then wiping soberly at her tears, she pressed the notebook into Spock's hands as if wanting only to be done with it. "Here's my assignment."

They moved to a sofa on the lower level. The deck was empty of visitors, all quiet at this late hour but for the faint, ever-present thrum of power. The paper crinkled loudly as Spock flipped through the neatly written pages. It was all there.

"I see you copied the words," he said, "but have you learned anything from them?"

True to her annoying habit, she shrugged. "I memorized bunches of it."

Spock gave her a penetrating look. Though his mother had tried to school him in human courtesy, it was his years in Starfleet that brought him to a better understanding of its implementation. Yes, Cristabeth would need to be polite, but she would also need to be _pleasant_. Now he told her so plainly and proceeded to question her on the lesson.

"Well," he conceded at last, "it seems you have absorbed most of the material."

There was no sign of pride in the child. Her eyes dropped, and almost shyly she said, "I…I want you to know that I'm sorry. Oh, not because of that man at the spaceport." She grimaced at the mention. "I'm sorry because…because I want you to like me."

Spock felt a tightening in his chest. Before he could summon a fit reply, Cristabeth pulled a gaily-wrapped present from her pocket.

Softly she said, "I know I've been awful. I didn't want to leave Mama…and you weren't anything like the father I'd dreamed about." She sighed. Fingering her hair into disarray, she stammered on. "Well, now I'm thinking…that maybe you were different back then, when I was a baby. Maybe you couldn't help leaving me. And maybe now you've changed. People do change, you know. _I've_ changed. And I just wish I could start the week over again…and make you like me better." Abruptly she dropped the heavy little parcel into his lap. "Here. I want you to have this before I leave."

 _Before she leaves._ Spock stared at the unexpected gift. She knew, then. She had heard Freedor Belvin call her a "colonial ward of New Florida", and she had understood.

"Open it," she urged.

His hands felt clumsy as he untied the red ribbon and peeled away the brightly striped paper. A burst of refracted light struck his eyes. _The hologram?_ The crystalline Adrianna fit into his palm as seductively as the flesh and blood woman had fit into his arms, his life.

"It's a copy," Cristabeth said. "Uhura had it done here on the ship."

Spock battled to hold his voice steady. "I am…profoundly touched. Thank you."

Tearfully Cristabeth whispered, "Maybe…when you look at it…you'll remember me, too."

Threatened with tears of his own, Spock turned his head aside. He blinked to clear his vision, clear his mind. One thing was certain. People _did_ change _._ Over the course of this remarkable week, his attitude toward young Cristabeth had undergone many startling shifts, culminating in this moment of decision. For once, emotion and logic seemed in total agreement. He knew what he must do. Perhaps, from the very beginning, it had been the only possible outcome.

Turning back to the child, he said, "T'Beth, you asked about my surname. It is S'chn T'gai, not Lemoine. You may already know that your mother and I never married. Prior to your birth she was much too ill, and as a result, my name was never entered on your birth record. That creates a legal problem, but there are simple medical tests that can confirm our blood relationship. I foresee no difficulty when I file for custody as your natural father tomorrow."

Not even the wonders of deep space had produced such a transforming rapture. She stared at him, mouth agape. " _Custody?_ You mean…I can _stay?_ I can live here…with you…on a starship?"

Here was the first of many complications. Spock's answer was slow in coming. "Perhaps…it can be arranged, for a time. But families are not normally allowed aboard Starfleet vessels. I will have to find some suitable living arrangement for you."

"But we'll be together?"

"Not always," he admitted, "but as much as possible. Unless, of course, you would prefer Solicitor Belvin's friendly home for girls."

A single word exploded from her—part squeal, part sob. " _Father!_ "

Flinging her arms around his neck, she kissed his cheek and hugged him with a fierce joy that swept straight through his mental barriers. Excessive, as always. Hopelessly irrepressible. In many ways very much like her mother, under the skin. But somehow or another they would deal with that, along with every other difficulty that came their way.

Setting down the hologram, Spock embraced his daughter properly, with both arms.


End file.
